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Mancini stood at the head of a circular table, two of his men seated around him. He was a stout man with dark hair slicked back too perfectly, a tailored navy suit hugging his frame, and gold rings glinting on both hands.

“Somebody thinks he’s more important than he is,” Yuriy whispered.

“Zhukovsky.” Mancini spread his arms. “What a privilege to meet someone so legendary in our circle. Please have a seat.”

I inclined my head once, letting the compliment slide off me. “Webster.”

The name cracked across the room like a gunshot.

He inhaled sharply, and the men flanking him shifted, tensed. I lowered myself into the chair he’d offered, unhurried, every movement deliberate. Using his legal surname wasn’t a mistake. The Mancini blood ran through him, sure, but not on paper. Not in name. Not in the way that mattered to old men with old money and older grudges. Half the city whispered he wasn’t the rightful heir. The other half whispered louder.

His uncle had tried to prop him up before ending up in prison, leaving Webster to claw his way onto the throne with a name that didn’t match the crown. And that surname? It was the one thing he couldn’t shoot his way out of.

Webster’s smile didn’t falter, but the corners of his eyes crinkled, confirming what I already suspected. His surname was a sore spot.

“It’s Mancini,” he said, voice warm enough to pass for cordial if you weren’t paying attention. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, then stilled them. “I don’t use the other name.”

His men stiffened like they were waiting for an order. Or a body to drop.

I blinked slowly. “Ah,” I murmured. “I am not too familiar with this side of the Italian Mafia. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

I turned a fraction to glance back at my men. Yuriy had taken up position behind me, his back against the wall. He seemed bored, but I knew it was all a pretense.

For the first time, I figured him out.

Yuriy Orlov’s greatest strength was his ability to fool people into thinking he wasn’t a threat when it was far from the truth.

“Seems someone fed me the wrong information,” I said. “You rest assured that I’ll get to the bottom of it.” I faced Webster again with an apologetic tilt of my head. “My apologies again. I prefer to get these things correct.”

“No offense taken,” he lied smoothly. He lifted his drink, but the liquid inside trembled against the glass before he steadied it. “But names carry weight in our world. They matter, so we must observe protocol.”

“I agree.” I folded my hands loosely in my lap as though I hadn’t peeled back one of his insecurities in front of an audience. “A surname can open doors… or slam them shut. Inconvenient when others fail to respect the correct one, I imagine.”

A ripple went through the room, silent, strained, sharp. Webster exhaled through his nose, smiling with all his teeth. “Respect,” he said lightly, “is something I make sure to collect.”

“Good. I’d hate for anyone to forget who you are.”

Behind me, one of my men shuffled their feet. Across from me, one of Webster’s shifted his stance like he was preparing for things to go sideways.

We were all smiling.

But not a soul in the room dared breathe too deeply.

“Let’s not waste time.” Webster lowered himself into his chair. “You come into Kansas City without so much as a courtesy call. You beat my men in the street. You kill a few. You send word you’ll wipe out my family if we breathe in your direction.” His smile thinned. “It is… disrespectful.”

The accusation hung for a moment. Yuriy shifted beside me, inhaling sharply through his nose. I didn’t look at him because he might request permission to put Webster in his place, and I was afraid I couldn’t say no to him.

“I came here for leisure rather than business,” I replied calmly. “It didn’t cross my mind to check if anyone was in charge of this territory. That was an oversight on my part. Had I known you were the head of the family here, I would have reached out.”

A lie. But a necessary diplomatic one.

Mancini narrowed his eyes. “And my men?”

“They robbed us.” I shrugged. “We defended ourselves. On the streets, we call that fair play.”

“They claim⁠—”

“I don’t care what they claim. I said what happened.”